


my love is as unchanging as my cold black heart

by magnificent



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Body Horror, Established Relationship, Evil Sole Survivor, Feels, Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 17:26:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14598030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: Not all broken things can be fixed.





	my love is as unchanging as my cold black heart

**Author's Note:**

> A quick Valentine fic.

It's a raider with a plasma pistol that takes the shot. Lucky chance, really. It's preceded by two others; one that hits harmlessly in the dirt fifteen feet in front of them, another that vaporizes the tin gutter of the house to Nick's right, and the last that slams into the side of his face and sends him tumbling.

“Nick!” Nate shouts, and then mutters,  _ “Shit.” _

The raiders had come out of nowhere. Usually the routes to Sanctuary were pretty safe, with how often Preston and the rest patrolled them and cut down on the number of dangers. He’d thought that the closer they got, the safer they’d be. Nick was a little more cautious, glancing around now and then, keeping a hand close to his pistol. But even he must have picked up on Nate’s mood and relaxed a little, because he was just as surprised as Nate.

“One down, keep going!” one of the raiders shouts, and Nate takes him out in two shots;  _ duck, switch cover, reload.  _ He doesn’t want to leave Nick laying in the street, but there are too many of them, and if he doesn’t do something soon,  _ both  _ of them will be on the ground. At least Nick can be repaired. That’s probably the best thing about having a machine for a companion.

There are four left.  _ Four. Dammit!  _ Why are there so many?

A raider with a crowbar gets too close, and Nate manages to keep his hands from shaking, manages to keep himself from thinking about Nick, left alone several yards behind him, hurt and probably in pain, and squeezes the trigger. The bullet tears through the raider’s neck just as he bears down on him, and there’s a heavy thump at his feet.

_ Keep moving. Three left. _

 

* * *

 

Nate had been reluctant to enter into another relationship, just a year and a half after losing Nora, but the battered old synth had drawn him in like no other. Waking up in a jaded and harsh world, he’d found a place where he could finally be true to himself. He could stop hiding his true nature, the one that he had discovered in war.

Nate liked killing.

But Nick? He was a detective, through and through. Even after his long, hard life, Nick stayed true to old world morals. He’d lost everything, but he never forgot the humanity that the Institute had denied him.

He remembers the conversation that changed everything with sudden clarity. Maybe because the situation now is so similar: fueled with adrenaline, enemies bearing down on him.

_ “ _ _ What the hell were you thinking?”  _

_ “What, Nick?” _

_ “That man had surrendered! He put down his weapons and asked you to spare his life. Now, I dislike raiders as much as the next person, but that? That was cold-blooded murder.” _

_ “Killing him now means that I don’t have to do it later.” _

_ “So you think that people can’t change?” _

 

* * *

 

Shot sprays into the wooden support post to his left.  _ Roll forward. Aim. Fire.  _ The rifle-bearing raider goes down once Nate shoots his knee, and another two shots finish the job. There’s a hot pain lancing through his arm. He’d been shot and hadn’t even noticed until now.

The spare stimpack in his coat pocket gets jammed into his upper arm, and he lets out a long breath and glances towards Nick as he feels the wound start to heal. The synth hasn’t moved, but he can see his hand twitching.  _ So he’s still alive. Good. _

 

* * *

 

_ “Why take the chance?” _

_ “Look, Nate… I realize you’re under a lot of stress. I would be too. But doing things like that isn’t the way that  _ we  _ do things. If you want my help, if we’re in this as a team, you need to give people an out. Maybe he wasn’t going to make himself a better person. Maybe he was. The point is, if someone surrenders, you don’t kill them. Next time we have something like that happen, we’re taking them in. Criminals get a trial. They don’t get murdered.” _

But Nick was wrong. People don’t change. They can only pretend.

A month later, once the conversation had repeated a second time and Nate was realizing that Nick actually  _ meant  _ the line about potentially leaving his company, Nate grudgingly gave an elderly woman fifty caps and some purified water when she complained about radiation sickness. Nick didn’t say anything, but he could feel the warmth of those yellow eyes on his back.

It was a sensation that went straight through his flesh and into his bones, warmth that filled his marrow and remained. It felt good to do things that Nick approved of, and afterwards he started weighing his options, deciding when he could spare supplies, or his time, just so that he could get another taste of Nick’s approval.

It was a slippery slope. A stranger lost in a world he could never imagine, it only made sense that he would latch onto the first person to believe in him. Soon enough, he was addicted to Nick’s quiet wisdom, his sharp tongue, the smell of gun oil and cigarettes, and most of all, the burning yellow of those citrine eyes—a light that shines in the darkest of nights.

It was enough to set a man on fire.

__

 

_ "Nate, what are—hmph—” _

_ A scorching kiss, Nick's synthetic skin warm under his hands. Pinned up against the wall in the agency. He tastes like rubber and cigarettes and something that isn't quite saliva. Nate can't hold back anymore, can't stand to look without touching. He's never been good at restraint. _

_ Nick pushes him back, eyes burning more brightly than usual, both hands on Nate's chest. His eyebrows are drawn down in something like outrage, and feeling chastised, Nate takes a step back. _

_ “Are you drunk?”  _

_ “No. I’m sorry. I had thought that maybe—but nevermind.” _

_ “Where do you think you’re going, kid? Sit down.” _

_ And Nate sits without a word. _

_ Nick lights a cigarette, takes a deep breath, and lets out an artificial lungful of smoke.  _“S_ tart from the beginning.” _

_ “Well. I, uh. I like you.” _

_ ‘Like’ was too small a word, but Nate had never been good with words. He’d fumbled through asking Nora out on a date, always quicker with his actions than language, and he’d made a royal mess of his proposal, too. He didn’t  _ like  _ Nick Valentine. He was obsessed with him. He loved him. He wanted to sit at his feet and feel his damaged hand card through his hair, the tips of his met al fingers just sharp enough to prick his scalp, to fall asleep listening to the baritone of his voice. He wanted to lock him in his office and keep him prisoner until there weren’t any more dangers in the Commonwealth. _

_ “Like, huh? They call me one hell of a detective, but I didn’t see that one coming.” _

_ Nate doesn't reply. _

_ “You’re a good friend to me, Nate. I guess I’m just surprised. You never said anything.” _

_ “I didn’t know how to say it.” _

_ Nick takes another long drag on his cigarette.  “It ain’t that I’m not amenable  to it, ”  and Nate’s head snaps up,  “b ut what are you looking to get out of this? I’m a little old-fashioned. Is this a fling for you, or something more?” _

_“It’s more,” Nate growls, standing. “It’s always been more.”_

 

* * *

 

The next raider is a woman. Nate takes her down without impunity. He’s never been the sort to treat women differently than men _ — _ a trait that had made him unpopular with most women of his era. Nora had been different. Nora had wanted to be viewed as an equal, no matter what. It was fortunate that his lack of social graces had endeared him to at least one person, because it seemed that he had few friends in both centuries.

The last is the raider with the laser pistol that had shot Nick.

_ This  _ one, he can take his time with. This is what he enjoys. This is what he's best at.

He shoots the pistol out of the other man’s hand, grabs the crowbar from the corpse of the raider at his feet, and takes off after the raider.

It’s an ugly, short battle, filled with the sort of visceral satisfaction that he only feels when beating the shit out of another human being. It's a good feeling. Like he's doing something criminal, even though most people in the wasteland look the other way when he gets to torturing. He slams the weapon over the raider’s skull, dropping him, and then works out his fury by breaking both his legs and hands before finally smashing the sharp end of the crowbar into the man’s face, over and over. By the time he’s finished, he’s covered in blood.

He tosses the crowbar down onto the corpse in distaste and wipes the blood from his face. Nick doesn’t like to see him covered in blood, and the sharp-eyed PI would catch the mangled state of the raider’s body if they pass him by; they’ll have to take another route. It’ll be too obvious that the man died in agony.

It can be tiring to hide his nature, but he doesn’t mind pretending if it’s for Nick.

_ Nick. Shit. _

Nate hurries towards his partner, still prone and crumpled on the asphalt.  _ What’ll the damage be this time? I thought I saw it hit his neck, or shoulder—  _

Once again, he’s thankful that he was a mechanic before the war. He’s fixed Nick up before, learned his systems inside and out. It was a necessity to learn how, but Nate would be lying if he said he didn’t get an erotic kick out of it, too. Knowing how all of those little parts fit together, being able to open up his lover and replace worn down parts, being able to make him better _ — _ it feels good.

Nate drops to his knees by Nick, flips him onto his back _ — _ and his breath catches in his throat.

_ No. No, no, no. _

When plasma hits its target, it burns. And melts. And disfigures. Nick's battered face, so infinitely precious to him, is a twisted mass of shriveled plastic and blackened metal. The servos beneath his face, intended to give life to his expressions, are molded together, damaged beyond repair. The right side of his face is a little better spared. The 'flesh’ is remaining in some places, the heat having damaged his skin but not destroyed it.

His beautiful citrine eyes are still intact, and the one thing that gives him hope is that Nick's eyes fix on his own.

“Oh, Valentine,” he says softly. “This one's gonna take a lot to fix, won't it…”

He notices the left corner of Nick's mouth twitching, his lips partially opening and then closing in defeat.

He can't speak, because his jaws are melted shut.

Gently, Nate pulls the screwdriver out of Nick's trench coat pocket, works it into the melted mass on the right side of his face, and pops open his mouth, dislocating half of Valentine's jaw grotesquely.

“Thanks, kid.” Nick's words are mumbled, having to speak with only one half of a mouth.

“Don't mention it. How are you holding up?”

“I think… maybe this is it for me,” Nick says, and upon seeing Nate's face twist with disbelief and anguish, he closes his metal hand over Nate's and adds, “On the plus side, it only hurt for the first five minutes.”

“Don't be dramatic,” Nate says, because Nick is wrong. How couldn't he be? He's a machine, machines can be fixed! They're nothing like people. Already his mind is churning, trying to remember the places where he can find parts to repair his beloved partner. “I won't lie, it's bad. But with Sturges’s help _ — _ ”

“I'm already shutting down,” Nick interrupts, and forces a smile. “I'm sorry, kid.”

 

* * *

 

_ “I'm sorry.” _

_ “What? What the hell are you apologizing for?” _

_ Nick, always so patient with his clients and cases, is fiddling with his screwdriver, tightening screws on his hand that probably don’t need to be tightened. As if he suddenly can’t meet Nate’s eyes. _

_ “Well…” the word is drawn out. “I know that’s probably not what you were hoping for. Or used to.” _

_ Nate blinks, sitting up from the sheets strewn around himself, and scratches his head. They’d come this far, but once he’d finished, Nick clammed up and put his clothes back on as if he couldn’t get away from him fast enough. But he hadn’t left; he’s sitting on Nate’s bed, fully clothed, trench coat, hat, and all, like nothing had happened. _

_ And he’s still not meeting Nate’s eyes. _

_ “I’m used to women, but somehow I don’t think that’s what you’re talking about,” Nate says. _

_ “A ready quip? From you? Normally it’s a struggle for me to get more than a single word out of you.” Nick flexes his hand, then pockets his screwdriver. _

_ “You really think it wasn’t good for me?” _

_ Nick meets his eyes, those golden irises the only thing visible in the darkened room. “I know it couldn’t have been too bad, but, Nate, you saw everything. Felt everything—or the lack thereof. I’m a synth. I wasn’t built for anything like this.” _

_ “Quit worrying,” Nate says. “And lay back down.” _

 

* * *

 

“Don’t fuck around with me,” Nate warns, his voice guttural. He’s cradling Nick’s head in his lap, one hand resting tenderly against the detective’s face, the other holding his damaged right hand.

“Wish I was. I didn’t want to go like this.”

“You aren’t dead yet, stop… stop talking like that. Listen to me, whatever’s broken, we can just replace it. You’re still talking, you’re still  _ you,  _ so you can’t be damaged that badly, right?”

“It’s corrupted,” Nick says, and the side of his mouth turns up a little, into a sad smile. “Heat damage. Plasma leaked inside the casing, I guess. The memory chip is toast. Just enough there to hold on for a little while, but once I shut down, there’s no coming back.”

“You shut up!” Nate snarls. “You’re a synth! You’re supposed to be stronger than me!  _ You were supposed to outlast me!” _

Nick squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry.”

_ “Stop saying that!  _ I can’t lose you!” Nate feels his eyes burning, and even though he hasn’t cried in years, not even for his dead wife, he has to fight past a lump in his throat. A deep, shuddering breath exits his lungs, and it’s as if it takes his strength with it. He bows over Nick, pressing his forehead against the other. “Please don’t leave me, baby, please. I’ll do better. I promise. I won’t hurt nobody ever again. You’ll be so proud. Just stay with me, darlin’.”

There’s a featherlight, trembling touch that runs along the plane of his face, down his jawline. The touch lingers at his chin, and then touches his lips.

“It’s okay, Nate. Shh…”

A plume of something like smoke drifts from Nick’s mouth and nose, and when Nate takes in a choked breath, it burns his lungs.  _ Plasma and plastic. _

He’s about to stand up, about to tell Nick to hold on, just a little longer (because Nick is wrong, of course he is, Sturges can fix anything, and with the two of them together, he can make Nick good as new) _ — _ and he sees that Nick’s vibrant, beautiful, golden, glowing eyes _ — _ have gone dark.

“No!” Nate sobs, and crushes the detective to his chest. He’s limp and heavy in his arms, nothing but a rusting shell of creaking metal. “Baby, no…”

A light wind whispers through the street. It seems surreal, that it’s sunny, without a cloud in the sky, that the weather isn’t reflecting his unrelenting grief. It should be raining; it should be a downpour. It’s as if the universe is making a mockery of his sorrow.

_ For the second time, my world has ended. _

 

It’s a long time, before Nate stands back up. He carries Nick in his arms, collecting his fedora from the pavement. Nudges his way through a rotting doorframe and lays him down on a decaying mattress.

He hesitates for a bit, then removes Nick’s trenchcoat and puts it in his pack. If something happens, if the Institute were to somehow realize that Nick had gone offline and come to collect, he wants something of Nick’s to stay with him. He’d wear it, to be that much closer to him, but his shoulders are too broad to fit. (He’d tried before, once, when Nick was away in Diamond City and had left his trench coat hung up on the rack, back when his infatuation was just beginning. Nick hadn’t caught him trying it on, but there was a brief moment of panic when he’d gotten stuck in it and had to extricate himself without tearing the seams.)

Nick’s fedora gets placed over his face, covering the terrible burns and open eyes. Like this, he looks like he’s sleeping; just another tired, worn-out PI with too many cases.

Nate is still in a haze when he leaves; he heads towards Sanctuary, still, without knowing the reason why. Why should he keep on going? What reason does he have to exist? Why didn’t his lungs give up and fail on him the moment that Nick left him, or the very moment that Nora died, for that matter?

But his legs keep moving. He passes the spot where Nick had fallen, goes past the bodies of the raiders, and stops at the last corpse. The raider who’d shot Nick, the one who’d died in misery, the one he’d brutalized in his last moments. The crowbar is still stuck in the man’s skull, wedged in between bloody meat and broken molars.

 

* * *

 

 

_ “Hey, Nick?” _

_ “Yeah?” _

_ “I don’t get it.” _

_ “Hah. You’ll have to be more specific than that, kid. If I had a cap for everything you didn’t understand, I’d own half of Diamond City.” _

_ “Real cute, Valentine. No, about what you said before. You really think that people can change?” _

_ “Of course I do. No man is born evil. It’s his choices that lead him there. What happened with that raider… I know you wouldn’t kill an innocent in cold blood—” _

_ Nate somehow keeps his expression neutral. _

_ “—but everyone was an innocent once. It’s your choices that define you. Despite your upbringing, programming, or whatnot, there’s a line between right and wrong. It’s up to each individual to decide which side of the line they stand on. That raider made his choices, and he got what was coming to him, I won’t argue that. Morally, though, I think what you did was wrong. Something’s not right about killing an unarmed man.” _

_ “...” _

_ “But there’s no reason why a person who’s made poor decisions in the past can’t make good ones in the future. You need to take a chance on people.” _

_ “Is that what you do?” _

_ “I took a chance on you, didn’t I?” _

_ ‘You were wrong,’ he wants to say. Because Nate knows, deep down, that he can never become the kind of good person that Nick envisions when he speaks. But he won't tell him. He won't ever tell him. _

 

* * *

 

He takes the crowbar with him when he leaves.


End file.
